917 


Peabody 
Fortune  and  Men's  E^res 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 


"ortune  and  Men's  Eyes: 
Drama  in  One  Act:  by 
fosephine  Preston  Peabody 


Samuel  French  :  Publisher 

28-30  West  Thirty-eighth  St.  :  New  York 


LONDON 


Samuel  French,  Ltd. 

26  SOUTHAMPTON  STRKET,  STRAND 
PRICE  TWENTY -FIVE  CENTS 


Fortune  and  Men's  Eyes: 
Drama  in  One  Act:  by 
Joseph!  tie  Preston,  Peabody 


Samuel  French :  Publisher 

28-30  West  Thirty-eighth  St.  :  New  York 

LONDON 

Samuel  French,  Ltd. 

26  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET,  STRAND 


Copyright,  1917,  by  Josephine  Preston  Peabody 


CAUTION. — This  play  is  fully  protected  under  the  Copyright 
laws  of  the  United  States  and  is  subject  to  royalty  when 
produced  by  amateurs  or  professionals.  Applications  for 
the  right  to  produce  "Fortune  and  Men's  Eyes"  should  be 
made  to  Samuel  French,  28-30  West  38th  St..  New  York. 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


3551 

FOREWORD. 


Some  apology  is  due  from  anyone  who  would 
make  use  of  our  Shakespeare  as  a  Person  of  the 
Play. 

In  this  instance,  the  play  came  into  being  as  an 
act  of  devotion,  rather  than  a  free-will  dramatic 
scheme. 

For  a  long  season,  the  writer  had  brooded  over 
Shakespere's  Sonnets,  and  their  further  revelation 
of  the  understanding  heart  that  remains  a  treasure 
to  mankind. 

The  scars  upon  a  great  mind,  of  grief  and  disillu 
sion;  a  false  friend,  a  bitter,  disenchanting  lady; 
self-contempt,  isolation,  doubt  outpoured; — these 
are  realities,  and  the  twenty-ninth  Sonnet  is  the 
sum  of  them. 

Of  the  many  theories  that  offer  historical  basis 
for  the  human  story,  the  one  which  identifies  the 
Friend  with  Willian  Herbert,  and  the  Dark  Lady 
with  Mary  Fytton,  seemed  at  least  not  improbable. 

It  should  be  needless  to  say  that  we  do  not  sup 
pose  the  daily  talk  of  great  poets  to  partake  of 
their  "  manner,"  as  the  gods  grant  them  speech  for 
the  gods  and  heroes  of  their  own  works. 

The  play  tries  to  show  The  Player  at  close  range, 
on  a  sordid  afternoon  in  South  London,  when  noth 
ing  would  go  right ;  and  the  best  beloved  of  all  poets 
felt  himself,  in  his  hour  of  dejection  and  self-con 
tempt,  deep 

"  In  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes." 

JOSEPHINE  PRESTON  PEABODY. 

Cambridge, 
March,  1917. 


THE  TWENTY-NINTH  SONNET. 


When,  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 

I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state 

And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 

And  look  upon  myself  and  curse  my  fate, 

Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 

Featur'd  like  him,  like  him  with  friends  possess'd, 

Desiring  this  man's  art  and  that  man's  scope, 

With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least; 

Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 

Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state, 

Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 

From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate; 

For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd  such  wealth  brings 

That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

WILLIAM  SHAKESPEARE. 


CHARACTERS. 


WILLIAM  HERBERT..  .Son  of  the  Earl  of  Pembroke 

SIMEON  DYER A  Puritan 

TOBIAS Host  of  "  The  Bear  and  The  Angel" 

WAT  BURROW A  bear-ward 

DICKON A  little  boy,  son  of  Tobias 

CHIFFIN A  ballad-monger 

A  PRENTICE 

A  PLAYER.  .  .Master  Wm.  Shakespeare  of  the  Lord 

Chamberlain's  Company 

MISTRESS  MARY  FYTTON A  maid-of -honor  to 

Queen  Elizabeth 

MISTRESS  ANNIE  HUGHES Also  of  the  Court 

TAVERNERS  and  PRENTICES 

TIME: — An   autumn   afternoon  in   the  year   1599, 
A.  D. 

PLACE  : — South  London. 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 


SCENE  : — Interior  of  "  The  Bear  and  the  Angel,"  in 
South  London.  At  back,  the  center  entrance 
gives  on  a  short  alley-walk  which  joins  the 
street  beyond  at  a  right  angle.  To  right  and 
left  of  this  doorway  there  are  casements. 
Front,  to  the  right,  a  door  opens  on  the  inn- 
garden;  a  second  door  right,  towards  the  back, 
leading  to  a  tap-room.  Opposite  this,  left,  a 
door  leading  into  a  buttery.  Left,  opposite  the 
garden-door,  a  large  chimney-place  with  a 
smouldering  wood-fire.  A  few  seats;  a  lantern 
(unlighted)  in  a  corner.  In  the  foreground  to 
the  right,  a  long  and  narrow  table  with  several 
mugs  of  ale  upon  it,  also  a  lute. 

At  one  end  of  the  table  WAT  BURROW  is  fin 
ishing  his  ale  and  holding  forth  to  the  PRENTICE 
(who  thrums  the  lute)  and  a  group  of  tavern- 
ers,  some  smoking.  At  the  further  end  of  the 
table  SIMEON  DYER  observes  all  with  grave 
curiosity.  TOBIAS,  the  host,  and  DICKON  draw 
near. 

PRENTICE  (singing). — 

What  do  I  give  for  the  Pope  and  his  riches! 
I's  my  ale  and  my  Sunday  breeches; 
Fs  an  old  master,  I's  a  young  lass, 
And  zve'll  eat  green  goose,  come  Martinmas 
7 


8     FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

Sing  Rowdy  Dowdy, 
Look  ye  don't  crowd  me: 
I's  a  good  club, 

— So  let  me  pass! 
DICKON. — 

Again!  again! 
PRENTICE. — 

Sing  Rowdy — 
WAT  (finishing  his  beer). —  -  , 

Swallow  it  down. 

Sling  all  such  froth  and  follow  me  to  the  Bear ! 
They  stay  for  me,  lined  up  to  see  us  pass 
From   end  to  end  o'   the   alley.     Ho!     You 

doubt  ? 

From  Lambeth  to  the  Bridge ! 
PRENTICES. —  )  'Tis  so;  ay. 
TAVERNERS.—   \  Come,  follow !    Come. 
WAT.— 

Greg's  stuck  his  ears 

With  nosegays,  and  his  chain  is  wound  about 
Like  any  May-pole.    What  ?    I  tell  ye,  boys, 
Ye  have  seen  no  such  bear,  a  Bear  o'  Bears, 
Fit  to  bite  off  the  prophet,  in  the  show, 
With  seventy  such  boys. 

(Pulling  DICKON'S  ear.) 

Bears,  say  you,  bears? 
Why,  Rursus  Major,  as  your  scholars  tell, 
A  royal  bear,  the  greatest  in  his  day, 
The  sport  of  Alexander,  unto  Nick — 
Was  a   ewe-lamb   dyed   black,   no   worse,   no 

worse ! 

To-morrow  come  and  see  him  with  the  dogs ; 
He'll  not  give  way, — not  he ! 
DICKON. — 

To-morrow's  Thursday! 
To-morrow's  Thursday ! 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES  9 

PRENTICE.  — 

Will  ye  lead  by  here? 
TOBIAS.  — 

Ay,  that  would  be  a  sight.     Wat,  man,  this 


way 


WAT.— 

Ho,  would  you  squinch  us?    Why,  there  be  a 

press 

O'  gentry  by  this  tide  to  measure  Nick 
And  lay  their  wagers,  at  a  blink  of  him, 
Against  to-morrow  !     Why,  the  stairs  be  full. 
To-morrow  you  shall  see  the  Bridge  a-creak, 
The    river  —  dry   with   barges,  —  London    gape, 
Gape  !     While  the  Borough  buzzes  like  a  hive 
With  all  their  worships  !     Sirs,  the   fame  o' 

Nick 

Has  so  pluckt  out  the  gentry  by  the  sleeve, 
'Tis  said  the  Queen  would  see  him. 

TOBIAS.  —     )  Ay,  'tis  grand. 

DICKON.  —    }  O-oh,  the  Queen? 

PRENTICE.  — 

How  now  ?    What  man  art  thou  to  lead  a  bear, 
Drink  all  ;  drink  to  the  Queen  ! 

TOBIAS.  — 
Ay,  now. 

WAT.— 

To  her  !  — 

You,  boy,  put  by  this  saying  with  your  pint: 
"  The    Queen,    her    high    and    glorious    maj 
esty  !  " 

SIMEON  (gravely).  — 

Long  live  the  Queen! 

WAT.— 

Maker  of  golden  laws 

For  baitings  !    She  that  cherishes  the  Borough 
And  shines  upon  our  pastimes.     By  the  mass  ! 
Thank  her  for  the  crowd  to-morrow.    But  for 
her, 


io    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

We  were  a  homesick  handful  of  brave  souls 
That  love  the  royal  sport.     These  mouthing 

players, 
These  hookers,   would   'a'   spoiled  us  of  our 

beer — 
PRENTICE. — 

Lying  by  to  catch  the  gentry  at  the  stairs, — 
All  pressing  towards  ftear  Alley — 
WAT.— 

To  run  'em  in 

At  stage-plays  and  show- fooleries  on  the  way; 
Stage-plays,  with  their  tart-nonsense  and  their 

flags, 
Their    "  Tamerlanes  "    and    "  Humors  "    and 

what  not ! 

My  life  on't,  there  was  not  a  man  of  us 
But  fared  his  Lent,  by  reason  of  their  fatness, 
And  on  a  holiday  ate  not  at  all ! 
TOBIAS  (solemnly). — 

Tis  so;  'tis  so. 
WAT.— 

But  when  she  heard  it  told 
How  lean  our  sport  was  grown,   she  damns 

stage-plays 
O'    Thursday.      So:      Nick   gets   his   turn   to 

growl ! 
PRENTICE. — 

As  well  as  any  player. 

(With  a  dumb  show  of  ranting  among  the  tavern- 

ers.) 
WAT.— 

Players? — Hang  them! 

I  know  'em,  I.    I've  been  with  'em.  ...  I  was 
As  sweet  a  gentlewoman,  in  my  voice, 
As  any  of  your  finches  that  sings  small. 
TOBIAS. — 

'Twas  high. 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.    11 

(Enter  THE  PLAYER,  followed  by  CHIFFIN,  the  bal 
lad-monger.     He  looks  worn  and  tired.} 

WAT  (lingering  at  the  table}. — 

I  say,  I've  played. 

.  .  .  There's  not  one  man 

Of  all  the  gang — save  on«  .  .  .  Ay,  there  be 
one 

I  grant  you,  now!  .  .  .  He  used  me  in  right 
sort; 

A  man  worth  better  trades. 

(Seeing  THE  PLAYER)     — Lord  love  you,  sir! 

Why,  this  is  you  indeed.    'Tis  a  long  day,  sir, 

Since  I  clapped  eyes  on  you.    But  even  now 

Your    name    was    on    my   tongue,    as   pat    as 
ale! 

You  see  me  off.    We  bait  to-morrow,  sir; 

Will  you  come  seef     Nick's  fresh,  and  every 
soul 

As  hot  to  see  the  fight,  as  'twere  to  be, 

Man  Daniel,  baited  with  the  lions ! 
TOBIAS. — 

Sir, 

'Tis  high  .  .  .  'tis  high. 
WAT.— 

We  show  him  in  the  street 

With  dogs  and  all,  ay,  now,  if  you  will  see. 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Why,  so  I  will.    A  show,  and  1  not  there? 

Bear  it  out  bravely,  Wat.    High  fortune,  man ! 

Commend  me  to  thy  bear. 

(Drinks  and  passes  him  the  cup. ) 

WAT.— 

Lord  love  you,  sir ! 
'Twas  ever  so  you  gave  a  man  godspeed.  .  .  . 


12          FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

And  yet  your  spirits  flag ;  you  look  but  palely. 
I'll  take  your  kindness,  thank  ye. 

(Turning  away.) 

In  good  time! 

Come  after  me  and  Nick,  now.     Follow  all; 
Come  boys,  come,  pack ! 

(Exit  WAT,  still  descanting.  Exeunt  most  of  the 
taverners,  with  the  PRENTICE.  SIMEON  DYER 
draws  near  THE  PLAYER,  regarding  him 
gravely.  CHIFFIN  sells  ballads  to  those  who 
go  out.  DICKON  is  about  to  follozv  them,  -when 
TOBIAS  holds  him  by  the  ear.} 

TOBIAS. — 

What  ?    Not  so  fast,  you  there ! 
Who  gave  you  holiday?     Bide  by  the  inn; — 
Tend  on  our  gentry. 

(Exit  after  the  crowd.) 

CHIFFIN. — 

Ballads,  gentlemen? 
Ballads,  new  ballads? 
SIMEON  (to  THE  PLAYER). — 

With  your  pardon  sir, 
I  am  gratified  to  note  your  abstinence 
From  this  deplorable  fond  merriment 
Of  baiting  of  a  bear. 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Your  friendship  then, 

Takes  pleasure  in  the  heaviness  of  my  leg& 
Save  I  am  weary,  I  would  see  the  bear. 
Nay,  rest  you  happy;  malt  shall  comfort  us. 
SIMEON. — 

You  do  mistake  me.    I  am— 
CHIFFIN. — 

Ballad,  sir?  - 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          13 

"  How  a  Young  Spark  would  Woo  a  Tanner's 

Wife, 

And  She  Sings  Sweet  in  Turn." 
SIMEON  (indignant). — 

Abandoned  poet! 
CIUFFIN  (indignant). — 
I'm  no  such  thing! — 

An  honest  ballad,  sir, 
No  poetry  at  all. 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Good,  sell  thy  wares, 
CHIFFIN.—- 

"  A  Ballad  of  a  Virtuous  Country-Maid, 
Forswears     the     Follies     of     the     Flaunting 

Town "— 

And  tends  her  geese  all  day,  and  weds  a  vicar. 
SIMEON.— 

A    godlier    tale,    in    sooth.      But    speak,    my 

man; 

If  she  be  virtuous,  and  the  tale  a  true  one, 
Can  she  not  do't  in  prose? 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Beseech  her,  man. 

'Tis  scandal  she  should  use  a  measure  so. 
For  no  more  sin  than  dealing  out  false  measure, 
Was  Dame  Sapphira  slain. 
SIMEON. — 

You  are  with  me,  sir ; 

Although  methinks  you  do  mistake  the  sense 
O'  that  you  have  read.  .  .  .  This  jigging,  jog 
trot  rime, 

This  ring-me- round,  debaseth  mind  and  matter, 
To  make  the  reason  giddy — 
CHIFFIN  (to  THE  PLAYER).— 

Ballad,  sir? 

"  Hear  All !  "  A  fine  brave  ballad  of  a  Fish 
New  catched  off  Dover ;  nay,  a  one-eyed  fish, 
With  teeth  in  double  rows ! 


14    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

THE  PLAYER. — 

Nay,  nay,  go  to ! 

CHIFFIN  (eloquently). — 

"  My  Fortune's  Folly,"  then ;  or  "  The  True 

Tale 
Of  an  angry  Gull ;  "  or  "  Cherries  Like  Me 

Best." 

"  Black  Sheep,  or  How  a.  Cut-Purse  Robbed 
His  Mother ;  " 
"The    Prentice   and   the   Dell!"  .  .  .  "Plays 

Play  not  Fair," 

Or  how  a  gentlewoman's  heart  was  took 
By.  a  player,  that  was  king  in  a  stage-play.  .  .  . 
"  The  Merry  Salutation,"—"  How  a  Spark 
Would  Woo  a  Tanner's  Wife !  "— "  The  Dire 
ful  Fish  "— 

Cock's  passion,  sir!  not  buy  a  cleanly  ballad 
Of  the  great  fish,  late  ta'en  off  Dover  coast, 
Having  two  heads  and  teeth  in  double  rows  ? 
Salt  fish  catched  in  fresh  water?  .  .  . 
'Od's  my  life! 

What  if,  or  salt  or  fresh  ?    A  prodigy ! 
A  ballad  like  "  Hear  All !  " — And  me  and  mine, 
Five  children  and  a  wife  would  bait  the  devil, 
May  lap  the  water  out  o'  Lambeth  Marsh 
Before  he'll  buy  a  ballad !    My  poor  wife, 
That  lies  a-weeping  for  a  tansy-cake ! 
Body  o'  me,  shall  I  smack  ale  again  ? 

THE  PLAYER. — 

Why,  here's  persuasion;  logic,  arguments. 
Nay,  not  the  ballad.    Read  for  thine  own  joy. 
I  doubt  not  but  it  stretches,  honest  length, 
From  Maid  Lane  to  the  Bridge  and  so  across. 
But  for  thy  lengtth  of  thirst— 

(Giving  him  a  coin.) 

That  touches  near. 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          15 

CHAFFIN  (apart}. — 

A  vagrom  player,  would  not  buy  a  tale 

O'  the  Great  Fish  with  the  twy  rows  o'  teeth ! 

Learn  you  to  read !  (Exit.) 

SIMEON. — 

Thou  seemst,  sir,  from  that  I  have  overheard, 
A  man,  as  one  should  grant,  beyond  thy  calling. 
I  would  I  might  assure  thee  of  the  way, 
To  urge  thee  quit  this  painted  infamy. — 
There  may  be  time,  seeing  thou  art  still  young, 
To  pluck  thee  from  the  burning.    How  are  ye 

'stroyed, 

Ye  foolish  grasshoppers !     Cut  off,  forgotten, 
When  moth  and  rust  corrupt  your  flaunting 

shows, 
The  earth  shall  have  no  memory  of  your  name ! 

DICKON.  - 

Pray  you,  what's  yours  ? 

SIMEON. — 

I  am  called  Simeon  Dyer. 

(There  is  the  sudden  uproar  of  a  crowd  in  the*, 
distance.  It  continues  at  intervals  for  some 
time. ) 

,    Hey,  lads? 

\   Some  noise  beyond:  Come,  cud- 
PRENTICES.—   j       gels>  come! 

'   Come  on,  come  on,  I'm  for  it. 

(Exeunt    all    but    THE    PLAYER,     SIMEON,    and 

DICKON.) 
SIMEON. — 

Something  untoward,  without :  or  is  it  rather 
The  tumult  of  some  uproar  incident 
To  this  vicinity? 
THE  PLAYER. — 

It  is  an  uproar 
Most  incident  to  bears. 
DICKON.-— 

I  would  I  knew ! 


16    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

THE  PLAYER  (holding  him  off  at  arm's  length). — 
Hey,  boy  ?    We  would  have  tidings  of  the  bear : 
Go  thou,  I'll  be  thy  surety.    Mark  him  well. 
Omit  no  fact ;  I  would  have  all  of  it : 
What  manner  o'  bear  he  is, — how  bears  him 
self; 
Number  and  •  pattern  of  ears,  and  eyes  what 

hue; 
His  voice  and  fashion  o'  coat.     Nay,  come  not 

back, 
Till     thou     hast    all. — Skip,     sirrah!       (Exit 

DICKON) 
SIMEON.— 

Think,  fair  sir. 

Take  this  new  word  of  mine  to  be  a  seed 
Of  thought  in  that  neglected  garden-plot, 
Thy  mind,  thy  worthier  part.    Nay,  think ! 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Why,  so ; 
Thou  hast  some  right,  friend ;  now  and  then  it 

serves. 
Sometimes    I    have    thought,    and    even    now, 

sometimes, 
...  I  think. 
SIMEON  (benevolently). — 

Heaven  ripen  thought  unto  an  harvest !    (Exit) 

(THE  PLAYER  alone,  rises,  stretches  his  arms,  and 
paces  the  floor  wearily.) 

THE  PLAYER.— 

Some   quiet   now.  .  .  .  Why    should    I    thirst 

for  it, 

Alone  with  the  one  man  of  all  living  men 
I   have  least  cause  to  honor !  .  .  She   is  too 

false 

At  last,  to  keep  a  spaniel's  loyalty. 
I  do  believe  it.    And  by  my  own  soul, 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.    17 

She  shall  not  have  me,  what  remains  of  me 
That  may  be  beaten  back  into  the  ranks. 
I  will  not  look  upon  her.  .  .  .  Bitter  Sweet. 
This  fever  that  torments  me  day  by  day — 
Call  it  not  love, — this  servitude,  this  spell 
That  haunts  me  like  a  sick  man's  fantasy, 
With    pleading   of    her   eyes,    her    voice,    her 

eyes — 

It  shall  not  have  me.    I  am  too  much  stained : 
But,  God  or  no  God,  yet  I  do  not  live 
And  have  to  bear  my  own  soul  company, 
To    have    to    stoop    so    low.      She    looks    on 

Herbert. 
Oh,  I  have  seen !    But  he, — he  must  withstand 

her! 
For    my    sake,    yes,    for    my    sake! — I'll    not 

doubt  .  .  . 

His  honor ;  nor  the  love  he  hath  to  me ; — 
As  Jonathon  to  David. — I'll  not  doubt. 
He  knows  what  I  have  suffered, — suffer  still — 
Although    I    love    her    not.      Her    ways,    her 

ways. 

It  is  her  ways  that  eat  into  the  heart, 
With  beauty  more  than  Beauty ;  and  her  voice, 
That  silvers  o'er  the  meaning  of  her  speech 
Like   moonshine   on   black   waters.      Ah,    un 
coil  !  .  .  . 

He's  the  sure  morning  after  this  dark  dream; 
Wide  daylight  and  west  wind,  of  a  lad's  love; 
With  all  his  golden  pride,  for  my  dull  hours, 
Still  climbing  sunward.    Sinks  all  love  in  him! 
And  cleanse  me  of  this  cursed,  fell  distrust 
That  marks  the  pestilence.     "  Fair,  kind,  and 

true." 

Lad,  lad.    How  could  I  turn  from  friendliness 
To  worship  such  false  gods?  .  .  . 
"  Fair,  kind,  and  true."    And  yet,  if  She  were 

true, — 


i8    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

To  me,  though  false  to  all  things  else; — one 

truth, 
So  one  truth  lived — .    One  truth !    O  beggared 

soul, 

— Foul  Lazarus,  so  starved  it  can  make  shift 
To  feed  on  crumbs  of  honor ! — Am  I  this  ? 

(Enter  ANNE  HUGHES.  She  has  been  running,  in 
evident  terror,  and  stands  against  the  closed 
door  looking  about  her.) 

ANNE. — 

Are  you  the  inn-keeper? 

(THE  PLAYER  turns  and  bows  courteously.) 

Nay,  sir,  your  pardon. 
I  saw  you  not  .  .  .  And  yet  your  face,  me- 

thinks, — 
But — yes,  I'm  sure.  .  .  . 

But  where's  the  inn-keeper? 
I  know  not  where  I  am,  nor  where  to  go! 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Madam,  it  is  my  fortune  that  I  may 
Procure    you    service.      (Going    towards    the 
door) 

(  The  uproar  sounds  nearer. ) 

ANNE. — 

Nay !  what  if  the  bear — 
THE  PLAYER. — 
The  bear? 
ANNE.— 

The  door!    The  bear  is  broken  loose. 
Did  you  not  hear?     I  scarce  could  make  my 

way 

Through  that  rank  crowd,  in  search  of  some 
safe  place. 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          19 

You  smile,   sir!     But  you  had  not  seen  the 

bear, — 

Nor  I,  this  morning !    Pray  you,  hear  me  out, — 
For  surely  you  are  gentler  than  the  place. 
I    came  ...  I    came    by    water  ...  to    the 

Garden, 

Alone,  .  .  .  from  bravery,  to  see  the  show 
And  tell  of  it  hereafter  at  the  Court ! 
There's  one  of  us  makes  count  of  all   such 

'scapes, — 

('Tis  Mistress  Fytton).     She  will  ever  tell 
The  sport  it  is  to  see  the  people's  games 
Among  themselves, — to  go  incognita, — 
And  take  all,  as  it  is  not  for  the  Queen, 
Gallants  and  rabble !     But  by  Banbury  Cross, 
I  am  of  tamer  mettle ! — All  alone, 
Among  ten  thousand  noisy  watermen; 
And  then  the  foul  ways  leading  from  the  Stair  ; 
And  then  ...  no  friends  I  knew,  nay,  not  a 

face. 

And  my  dear  nose  beset,  and  my  pomander 
Lost  in  the  rout, — or  else  a  cut-purse  had  it : 
And  then  the  bear  breaks  loose !    Oh,  'tis  a  day 
Full  of  vexations,  nay,  and  dangers  too. 
I  would  I  had  been  slower  to  outdo 
The  pranks  of  Mary  Fytton.  .  .  .  You  know 

her,  sir? 
THE  PLAYER. — 

If  one  of  my  plain  calling  may  be  said 

To   know   a   maid-of -honor.      (More   lightly) 

And  yet  more : — 

My  heart  has  cause  to  know  the  lady's  face. 
ANNE   (blankly). — Why,  so  it  is.  ...  Is't  not  a 

marvel,  sir, 
The    way    she    hath?      Truly,    her    voice    is 

good.  .  .  . 

And  yet, — but  oh,  she  charms ;  I  hear  it  said. 
A  winsome  gentlewoman,  of  a  wit,  too. 


20    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

We  are  great  fellows ;  she  tells  me  all  she  does ; 
And,  sooth,  I  listen  till  my  ears  be  like 
To  grow,  for  wonder.    Whence  my  'scape,  to 
day ! 

Oh,  she  hath  daring  for  the  pastimes  here; 
I  would — change  looks  with  her,  to  have  her 

spirit ! 

Indeed,  they  say  she  charms  Some-one,  by  this. 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Some  one.  .  .  . 
ANNE. — 

Hast  heard? 

Why,  sure  my  Lord  of  Herbert, 
Ay,  Pembroke's  son.     But  there  I  doubt, — I 

doubt. 

He  is  an  eagle  will  not  stoop  for  less 
Than  kingly  prey.    No  bird-lime  takes  him. 
THE  PLAYER. — 

He  hath  shown  many  favors  to  us  players. 

Herbert.  .  .  . 
ANNE. — 

Ah,  now  I  have  you ! 

THE  PLAYER. — 

Surely,  gracious  madam ; 
My  duty;  .  .  .  what  beside? 
ANNE. — 

This  face  of  yours. 
Twas  in  some  play,  belike.     (Apart]  .  .  . 

I  took  him  for 

A  man  it  should  advantage  me  to  know ! 
And  he's  a  proper  man  enough.  .  .  .  Ay  me ! 

(  When  she  speaks  to  him  again  it  is  with  encourag 
ing  condescension. ) 

Surely    you've    been    at    Whitehall,    Master 
Player? 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.    21 

THE  PLAYER  (bowing).— 

So. 
ANNE.-- 

And  how  oft?    And  when? 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Last  Christmas  tide ; 

And  Twelfth  Day  eve,  perchance.    Your  mem 
ory 

Freshens  a  dusty  past.  .  .  .  The  hubbub's  over. 
Shall  I  look  forth  and  find  some  trusty  boy 
To  attend  you  to  the  river  ? 
ANNE. — 

I  thank  you,  sir. 

(He  goes  to  the  door  and  steps  out  into  the  alley, 
looking  up  and  down.  The  noise  in  the  dis 
tance  springs  up  again.) 

(Apart  demurely)      'Tis  not  past  sufferance. 

Marry,  I  could  stay 

Some  moments  longer,  till  the  streets  be  safe. 
Sir,  sir! 
THE  PLAYER  (returning'}. — 

Command  me,  madam. 
ANNE. — 

I  will  wait 

A  little  longer,  lest  I  meet  once  more 
That  ruffian  mob,  or  any  of  the  dogs.  . 
These  sports  are  better  seen  from  balconies. 
THE  PLAYER.— 

Will  you  step  hither  ?    There's  an  arbored  walk 
Sheltered   and   safe.      Should   they   come   by 

again, 

You  may  see  all,  an't  like  you,  and  be  hid. 
ANNE. — 

A  garden  there?    Come,  you  shall  show  it  me. 

(They  go  out  into  the  garden  on  the  right,  leaving 


22    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

the  door  shut.  Enter  immediately,  in  great 
haste,  MARY  FYTTON  and  WILLIAM  HERBERT, 
followed  by  DICKON,  -who  looks  about  and 
seeing  no  one,  goes  to  setting  things  in  order.) 

MARY. — 

Quick,  quick !  .  .  .  She  rnust  have  seen  me. 

Those  big  eyes, 

How  could  they  miss  me,  peering  as  she  was 
For   some    familiar    face?     She   would   have 

known, 

Even  before  my  mask  was  jostled  off 
In  that  wild  rabble  .  .  .  bears  and  bearish  men ! 
HERBERT. — 

Why  would  you  have  me  bring  you  ? 
MARY. — (Gaily) 

Why?    Ah,  why! 

Sooth,  once  I  had  a  reason :  now  'tis  lost, — 
Lost !    Lost !    Call  out  the  bell-man. 
DICKON  (seriously). — 

Shall  I  so? 
HERBERT. — 

Nay,  nay;  that  were  a  merriment  indeed, 
To  cry  us  through  the  streets !    (To  MARY) 
You  riddling  charm. 
MARY. — 

A  riddle  yet?    You  almost  love  me,  then. 
HERBERT. — 
Almost  ? 
MARY. — 

Because  you  cannot  understand. 
Alas,  when  all's  unriddled,  the  charm  goes. 
HERBERT. — 

Come,  you're  not  melancholy? 
MARY. — 

Nay,  are  you? 

But  should  Nan  Hughes  have  seen  us,  and 
spoiled  all — 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          23 

HERBERT. — 

How  could  she  so  ? 
MARY. — 

I  know  not  .  .  .  Yet  I  know 
If  she  had  met  us,  she  could  steal  To-day, 
Golden  To-day ! 
HERBERT. — 

A  kiss ;  and  so  forget  her. 
MARY. — 

Hush,  hush, — the  tavern-boy  there. 

(To  DICKON)     Tell  me,  boy, — 

(To  HERBERT)     Some  errand,  now;  a  roc's 

egg! 

Strike  thy  wit. 
HERBERT. — 

What  is't  you  miss  ?    Why,  so.    The  lady's  lost 
A  very  curious  reason,  wrought  about 
With  diverse  broidery. 
MARY. — 

Nay,  'twas  a  mask. 
HERBERT. — 

A  mask,  arch-wit?    Why  will  you  mock  your 
self 
And  all  your  fine  deceits?     Your  mask,  your 

reason, 

Your  reason  with  a  mask ! 
MARY. — 

You  are  too  merry. 
(To  DICKON)     A  mask  it  is,  and  muffler  finely 

wrought 

With  little  amber  points  all  hung  like  bells. 
I  lost  it  as  I  came,  somewhere.  .  .  . 
HERBERT. — 

Somewhere 

Between  the  Paris  Gardens  and  the  Bridge. 
MARY. — 

Or  below  Bridge, — or  haply  in  the  Thames ! 


24         FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

HERBERT. — 

No  matter  where,  so  you  do  bring  it  back. 

Fly,  Mercury!    Here's  feathers  for  thy  heels. 

(Giving  coin} 
MARY  (aside). — 

Weights,  weights!     (Exit  DICKON) 

(HERBERT  looks  about  him,  opens  the  door  of  the 
tap-room,  grows  troubled.  She  watches  him 
with  dissatisfaction,  seeming  to  warm  her  feet 
by  the  fire  meanwhile.) 

HERBERT  (apart). — 

I  know  this  place.     We  used  to  come 
Together,  he  and  I  ... 
MARY  (apart). — 

Forgot  again. 

O  the  capricious  tides,  the  hateful  calms, 
And  the  too  eager  ship  that  would  be  gone 
Adventuring  against  uncertain  winds, 
For  some  new,  utmost  sight  of  Happy  Isles ! 
Becalmed, — becalmed  .  .  .  But    I    will    break 
this  calm. 

(She  sees  the  lute  on  the  table,  crosses  and  takes 
it  up,  running  her  fingers  over  the  strings  very 
softly.  She  sits. ) 

HERBERT. — 

Ah,  mermaid,  is  it  you  ? 
MARY. — 

Did  you  sail  far? 
HERBERT. — 

Not  I;  no,  sooth.     (Crossing  to  her) 

Mermaid,    I    would    not    think. 
But  you — 
MARY. — 

I  think  not.    I  remember  nothing. 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          25 

There's  nothing  in  the  world  but  you  and  me; 
All  else  is  dust.    Thou  shalt  not  question  me ; 
Or  if, — but  as  a  sphinx  in  woman-shape: 
And  if  thou  fail  at  answer,  I  shall  turn, 
And  rend  thy  heart  and  cast  thee  from  the  cliff. 

(She  leans  her  head  back  to  kiss  him.) 

So  perish  all  who  guess  not  what  I  am !  .  .  . 
Oh,  but  I  know  you :  you  are  April-Days. 
Nothing  is  sure,  but  all  so  beautiful ! 

{She  runs  her  finger  up  the  strings,  one  by  one,  and 
listens,  speaking  to  the  lute.} 

Is  it  not  so?    Come,  answer.    Is  it  true? 
Speak,  sweeting,  since  I  love  thee  best  of  late, 
And  have  forsook  my  virginals  for  thee. 
All's  beautiful  indeed  and  all  unsure? 
"Ay"  .  .  .   (Did  you  hear?)     He's  fair  and 
faithless?      "Ay."      (Speaking   with    the 
lute} 
HERBERT. — 

Poor  oracle,  with  only  one  reply! — 
Wherein  'tis  unlike  thee. 
MARY. — 

Could  he  love  aught 
So  well  as  his  own  image  in  the  brook, 
Having  once  seen  it? 
HERBERT. — 

Ay! 
MARY. — 

The  lute  saith  "  No."  .  .  . 
O   dullard!     Here   were   tidings,   would  you 

mark. 

What  said  I?    Oracle,  could  he  love  aught 
So  dear  as  his  own  image  in  the  brook, 
Having  once  looked?  .  .  .  No,  truly. 


26    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

(With  sudden  abandon}     Nor  can  I! 
HERBERT. — 

0  leave  this  game  of  words,  you  thousand- 

tongued. 

Sing,  sing  to  me.    So  shall  I  be  all  yours 
Forever ; — or  at  least  till  you  be  still !  .  .  . 

1  used  to  wonder  he  should  be  thy  slave: 

I  wonder  now  no  more.    Your  ways  are  won 
ders  ; 

You  have  a  charm  to  make  a  man  forget 
His  past  and  yours,  and  everything  but  you. 
MARY  (speaking  with  her  eyes  on  his  face). — 
"  When  daisies  pied  and  violets  bhte 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white  " — 
How  now? 
HERBERT. — 

How    now !      That    song  .  .  .  thou    wilt    sing 

that? 
MARY.— 

Marry,  what  mars  the  song? 
HERBERT.— 

Have  you  forgot 
Who  made  it  ? 
MARY. — 

Soft,  what  idleness     So  fine? — 
So  rude?    And  bid  me  sing!    You  get  but  si 
lence  ; 

Or,  if  I  sing, — beshrew  me,  it  shall  be 
A  dole  of  song,  a  little  starveling  breath 
As  near  to  silence  as  a  song  can  be. 

(She  sings  under-breath,  fantastically.) 

Say  how  many  kisses  be 
Lent  and  lost  twixt  you  and  me? 
"  Can  I  tell  when  they  begun?  " 
Nay,  but  this  were  prodigal: 
Let  us  learn  to  count  withal 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          27 

Since  no  ending  is  to  spending, 

Sum  our  riches,  one  by  one. 

"  You  shall  keep  the  reckoning, 

Count  each  kiss  zvhile  I  do  sing." 
HERBERT. — 

Oh,   not   these  little  wounds.     You   vex  my 

heart  ; 

Heal  it  again  with  singing, — come,  sweet,  come. 
Into  the  garden !    None  shall  trouble  us. 
This  place  has  memories  and  conscience  too : 
Drown  all,  my  mermaid.    Wind  them  in  your 

hair 
And  drown  them,  drown  them  all. 

(He  swings  open  the  garden-door  for  her.  At  the 
same  moment  ANNE'S  voice  is  heard  approach 
ing.) 

ANNE  (without). — 

Some  music  there? 
HERBERT. — 

Perdition!     Quick, — behind  me,  love. 

(Swinging  the  door  shut  again,  and  looking  through 
the  crack.) 

MARY. — 

'Tis  she — 
Nan  Hughes,  'tis  she!     How  came  she  here? 

By  heaven, 

She  crosses  us  to-day.    Nan  Hughes  lights  here 
In  a  Bank  tavern !    Nay,  I'll  not  be  seen. 
Sooner  or  later  it  must  mean  the  wreck 
.  Of  both  .  .  .  should  the  Queen  know. 
HERBERT. — 

The  spite  of  chance! 

She  talks  with  some  one  in  the  arbor  there  .  .  . 
Whose  face  I  see  not.     Come,  here's  doors  at 
least. 


28    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

(They  cross  hastily.    MARY  opens  the  door  on  the 
left  and  looks  within.') 

MARY. — 

Too  thick.  ...  I  shall  be  penned.  But  guard 
you  this 

And  tell  me  when  they're  gone.  Stay,  stay; — 
mend  all. 

If  she  have  seen  me, — swear  it  was  not  I. 

Heaven  speed  her  hence,  with  her  new  body 
guard! 

(Exit,  closing  door.     HERBERT  looks  out  into  the 
garden. ) 

HERBERT. — 

By  all  accursed  chances, — none  but  he ! 

(Retires  up  to  stand  beside  the  door,  looking  out  of 
casement.  Re'enter  from  the  garden,  ANNE, 
followed  by  THE  PLAYER.) 

ANNE. — 

No,  'twas  some  magic  in  my  ears,  I  think. 

There's  no  one  here.     (Seeing  HERBERT) 

But  yes,  there's  some  one  here: — 

The  innkeeper.    Are  you — 

Saint  Catherine's  ruff! 

My  Lord  of  Herbert.     Sir,  you  could  not  look 

More  opportune.     But  for  this  gentleman — 
HERBERT  (bowing}. — 

My  friend,  this  long  time  since, — 
ANNE. — 

Marry,  your  friend? 
THE  PLAYER  (regarding  HERBERT  searchingly). — 

This  long  time  since. 
ANNE. — 

Nay,  is  it  so,  indeed? 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.    29 

(To  HERBERT)    My  day's  fulfilled  of  blunders ! 

O  sweet  sir, 

How  can  I  tell  you?    But  I'll  tell  you  all, 
If  you'll  but  bear  me  escort  from  this  place 
Where  none  of  us  belongs.    Yours  is  the  first 
Familiar  face  I've  seen  this  afternoon ! 
HERBERT  (apart). — 
A  sweet  assurance. 

(Aloud)     But  you  seek  .  .  .  you  need 
Some  rest — some  cheer,  some — will  you  step 

within?     (Pointing  to  the  tap-room) 
The  tavern  seems  deserted,  but — 
ANNE. — 

Not  here ! 

I've  been  here  quite  an  hour.    Come,  citywards, 
To  Whitehall !    I  have  had  enough  of  bears 
To  quench  my  longing  till  next  Whitsuntide. 
Down  to  the  river,  pray  you. 
HERBERT. — 

Sooth,  at  once? 
ANNE. — 

At  once,  at  once  ! 

(To  THE  PLAYER)     I  crave  your  pardon,  sir, 

For  sundering  your  friendships.     I've  heard 

say 

Some  woman  ever  crosses  'twixt  two  men, 
To  their  confusion.    You  shall  drink  amends 
Some  other  day.    I  must  be  safely  home. 
THE  PLAYER  (half  reassured}. — 

It  joys  me  that  your  trials  have  found  an  end; 
And  for  the  rest,  I  wish  you  prosperous  voy 
age; 
Which  needs  not,  with  such  halcyon  weather 

toward. 
HERBERT  (apart). — 

It  cuts :  and  yet  he  knows  not.    Can  it  pass  ? 
(To  him)    Let  us  meet  soon.    I  have — I  know 
not  what 


30    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

To  say — nay,  no  import ;  but  chance  has  parted 
Our  several  ways  too  long.  To  leave  you  thus, 
Without  a  word — 

ANNE. — (Pettishly) 

You  are  in  haste,  my  lord! 

By  the  true  faith,  here  are  two  friends  indeed ! 

Two  lovers  crossed:   and   I, — 'tis   I  that  bar 

them! 

Pray  tarry,  sir.    I  doubt  not  I  may  light 
Upon  some  link-boy  to  attend  me  home, 
Or  else  a  drunken  prentice  with  a  club, 
Or  that  patched  keeper  strolling  from  the  Gar 
den 

With  all  his  dogs  along;  or  failing  them, 
A  pony  with  a  monkey  on  his  back, 
Or,  failing  that,  a  bear!    Some  escort,  sure, 
Such  as  the  Borough  offers !    I  shall  look 
Part  of  a  pageant  from  the  Lady  Fair, 
And  boast  for  three  full  moons,  "  Such  sights  I 

saw !  " 

Truly,  'tis  new  to  me :  but  I  doubt  not 
I  shall  trick  out  a  mind  for  strange  adventure, 
As  high  as — Mistress  Fytton! 

HERBERT. — 

Say  no  more, 

Dear  lady !    I  entreat  you  pardon  me 
The  lameness  of  my  wit.     I'm  stark  adream ; 
You  lighted  here  so  suddenly,  unlocked  for 
Vision  in  Bankside !    Let  me  hasten  you.  .  .  . 
Now  that  I  see  I  dream  not.    It  grows  late. 

ANNE. — 

And  can  you  grant  me  such  a  length  of  time? 

HERBERT.— 

Length?    Say  Illusion!    Time?    Alas, 'twill  be 
Only  a  poor  half-hour,   (loudly)  a  poor  half- 
hour! 
(Apart)     Could  she  hear  that,  I  wonder? 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.    31 

THE  PLAYER  (bowing  over  ANNE'S  hand}. — 

Not  so,  madam; 

A  little  gold  of  largess,  fallen  to  me 
By  chance. 
HERBERT  (to  him}. — 

A  word  with  you — 

(Apart}     O,  I  am  gagged! 
ANNE  (  to  THE  PLAYER). — 
You  go  with  us,  sir? 

(He  moves  towards  door  with  them.} 

THE  PLAYER. — 

No,  I  do  but  play 
Your  inn-keeper. 
HERBERT  (apart,  despairingly}. — 

The  eagle  is  gone  blind. 

(Exeunt  all  three,  leaving  the  doors  open.  They 
are  seen  to  go  down  the  walk  together.  At  the 
street  they  pause,  THE  PLAYER  bowing  slowly, 
then  turning  back  towards  the  inn;  ANNE  hold 
ing  HERBERT'S  arm.  Within,  the  door  on  the 
left  opens  slightly,  then  MARY  appears.} 

MARY. — 

'Tis  true.    My  ears  caught  silence,  if  no  more. 
They're  gone.  .  .  . 

(She  comes  out  of  her  hiding-place  and  opens  the 
left-hand  casement  to  see  ANNE  disappearing 
with  HERBERT.) 

She  takes  him  with  her !    He'll  return  ? 

Gone,    gone,    without    a    word;    and    I    was 

caged, — 

And  deaf  as  well.    O,  spite  of  everything ! 
She's  so  unlike.  .  .  .  How  long  shall  I  be  here 


32    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

To  wait  and  wonder  ?    He  with  her — with  her ! 

(THE  PLAYER,  having  come  slowly  back  to  the  door, 
hears  her  voice.  MARY  darts  towards  the  en 
trance  to  look  after  HERBERT  and  ANNE.  She 
sees  him  and  recoils.  She  falls  back  step  by 
step,  while  he  stands  with  his  hands  upon  the 
door-posts,  impassive. ) 

You!  .  .  . 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Yes.  .  .  .  (After  a  pause} 

And  you. 
MARY. — 

Do  you  not  ask  me  why 
I'm  here? 
THE  PLAYER. — 

I  am  not  wont  to  shun  the  truth. 
But  yet  I  think  the  reason  you  could  give 
Were  too  uncomely. 
MARY. — 

Nay;— 
THE  PLAYER. — 

If  it  were  truth.  .  .  . 

If  it  were  truth!    Although  that  likelihood 
Scarce  threatens. 
MARY. — 

— So.    Condemned  without  a  trial. 
THE  PLAYER. — 

O,  speak  the  lie  now.    Let  there  be  no  chanct 
For  my  unsightly  love,  bound  head  and  foot, 
Stark,  full  of  wounds  and  horrible,  to  find 
Escape  from  out  its  charnel-house; — to  rise 
Unwelcome,  before  eyes  that  had  forgot, 
And  say  it  died  not  truly.    It  should  die. 
Play  no  imposture;  leave  it, — it  is  dead. 
I  have  been  weak,  in  that  I  tried  to  pour 
The  wine  through  plague-struck  veins.    It  came 
to  life 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          33 

Over  and  over,  drew  sharp  breath  again 
In  torture  such  as't  may  be  to  be  born, 
If  a  poor  babe  could  tell.    Over  and  over, 
I  tell  you,  it  has  suffered  resurrection, 
Cheating  its  pain  with  hope,  only  to  die, 
Over  and  over; — die  more  deaths  than  men 
The  meanest,  most  forlorn,  are  made  to  die 
By  tyranny  or  nature.  .  .  .  Now  I  see  all 
Clear.    And  I  say,  it  shall  not  rise  again. 
I  am  as  safe  from  you  as  I  were  dead. 
I  know  you. 

MARY. — 

Herbert — 

THE  PLAYER. — 

Do  not  touch  his  name. 
Leave  that;  I  saw. 

MARY.— 

You  saw?    Nay,  what? 

THE  PLAYER. — 

The  whole 

Clear  story. — Not  at  first.  While  you  were  hid, 
I  took  some  comfort,  drop  by  drop,  and  minute 
By  minute.  (Dullard !)  Yet  there  was  a  maze 
Of  circumstance  that  showed  even  then  to  me, 
Perplext  and  strange.  You  here,  unravel  it. 
All's  clear:  you  are  the  clew.  (Turning  away) 

MARY  (going  to  the  casement) — 
(Apart)     Caged,  caged ! 
Does  he  know  all?    Why  were  those  walls  so 

dense  ? 
(To  him)    Nan  Hughes  hath  seized  the  time  to 

tune  your  mind 

To   some   light   gossip.      Say,   how   came   she 
here? 

THE  PLAYER. — 

All  emulation,  thinking  to  match  you 

In  high  adventure : — liked  it  not,  poor  lady ! 

And  is  gone  home,  attended. 


34         FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 
(Reenter  DICKON.) 

DICKON  (to  MARY). — 

They  be  lost ! — 

Thy  mask  and  muffler; — 'tis  no  help  to  search. 

Some  hooker  would  'a'  swallowed  'em,  be  sure, 

As  the  whale  swallows  Jonas,  in  the  show. 
MARY. — 

'Tis  nought:  I  care  not. 
DICKON  (looking  at  the  fire}. — 

Hey,  it  wants  a  log. 

(While  he  mends  the  fire,  humming,  THE  PLAYER 
stands  by  him  taking  thought.  MARY  speaks 
apart,  going  to  casement  again  to  look  out.) 

MARY  (apart). — 

I  will  have  what  he  knows.    To  cast  me  off: — 
Not  thus,  not  thus.    Peace,  I  can  blind  him  yet, 
Or  he'll  despise  me.    Nay,  I  will  not  be 
Thrust  out  at  door  like  this.    I  will  not  go 
But  by  mine  own  free  will.    There  is  no  power 
Can  say  what  he  might  do  to  ruin  us, 
To  win  Will  Herbert  from  me, — almost  mine, 
And  I  all  his,  all  his — O  April-Days ! — 
Well,   friendship  against  love-?     I  know  who 

wins. 
He  is  grown  dread.  .  .  .  But  yet  he  is  a  man. 

(Exit  DICKON  into  tap-room) 
(To  THE  PLAYER,  suavely.) 

Well,  headsman?    (He  does  not  turn) 

Mind  your  office :  I  am  judged. 
Guilty,  was  it  not  so?  ...  What  is  to  do, 
Do  quickly.  .  .  .  Do  you  wait   for  some  re 
prieve  ? 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          35 

Guilty,  you  said.    Nay,  do  you  turn  your  face 
To  give  me  some  small  leeway  of  escape? 
And  yet,  I  will  not  go. 

(Coming  down  slozvly.) 

Well,  headsman?  .  .  . 

You  ask  not  why  I  came  here,  Clouded  Brow, 
Will  you  not  ask  me  why  I  stay?    No  word? 

0  blind,  come  lead  the  blind !    For  I,  I  too 
Lack  sight  and  every  sense  to  linger  here 
And  make  me  an  intruder,  where  I  once 
Was  welcome,  oh  most  welcome,  as  I  dreamed ! 
Look  on  me,  then.    I  do  confess,  I  have 

Too  often  preened  my  feathers  in  the  sun, 
And  thought  to  rule  a  little,  by  my  wit. 

1  have  been  spendthrift  with  men's  offerings 
To  use  them  like  a  nosegay, — tear  apart, 
Petal  by  petal,  leaf  by  leaf,  until 

I  found  the  heart  all  bare,  the  curious  heart 
I  longed  to  see,  for  once,  and  cast  away. 
And   so,  at  first,   with  you.  .  .  .  Ah,  now  I 

think 
You're  wise.     There's  nought  so  fair,  so  ... 

curious, 

So  precious-rare  to  find,  as  honesty. 
'Twas  all  a  child's  play  then;  a  counting-off 
Of  petals.    Now  I  know.  .  .  .  But  ask  me  why 
I  come  unheralded,  and  in  a  mist 
Of    circumstance    and    strangeness.      Listen, 

love, — 

Well  then,  dead  love,  if  you  will  have  it  so. 
I  have  been  cunning,  cruel, — what  you  will : 
And  yet  the  days  of  late  have  seemed  too  long 
Even  for  summer !    Something  called  me  here. 
And  so  I  flung  my  pride  away  and  came, — 
A  very  woman  for  my  foolishness ! — 
To  say  once  more, — to  say  .  .  . 


36         FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

THE  PLAYER. — 

No,  I'll  not  ask. 
What  lacks?    I  need  no  more;  you  have  done 

well. 

'Tis  rare.    There  is  no  man  I  ever  saw 
But  you  could  school  him.    Women  should  be 

players. 

You  are  sovran  in  the  art :  feigning  and  truth 
Are  so  commingled  in  you.    Sure,  to  you 
Nature's  a  simpleton  hath  never  seen 
Her  own  face  in  the  well !    Is  there  aught  else, 
To  ask  of  my  poor  calling? 
MARY. — 

I  have  deserved  it 

In  other  days.    Hear  how  I  can  be  meek. — 
I  am  come  back ;  a  foot-worn  runaway, 
Like  any  braggart  boy.    Let  me  sit  down, 
And  take  Love's  horn-book  in  my  hands  again, 
And  learn  from  the  beginning; — by  the  rod, 
If  you  will  scourge  me,  love!     Come,  come, 

forgive. 

I  am  not  wont  to  sue :  and  yet  to-day 
I  am  your  suppliant,  I  am  your  servant, 
Your  link-boy,  yes,  your  minstrel:   so, — wilt 

hear? 

( Takes  up  the  lute,  and  gives  a  last  look  out  of  the 
casement. ) 

The  tumult  in  the  street  is  all  apart 
With  the  discordant  past.    The  hour  that  is, 
Shall  be  the  only  thing  in  all  the  world. 
(Apart)     I  will  be  safe.     He'll  not  win  Her 
bert  from  me ! 

(Crossing  to  him.) 
Will  you  have  music,  good  my  lord? 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          37 

THE  PLAYER  (catching  the  lute  from  her). — 

Not  that, 
Not    that!     By   heaven,    you    shall   not.  .  .  . 

Nevermore. 
MARY. — 

So  ...  But  you  speak  at  last.    You  are,  for 
sooth, 

A  man.    And  you  shall  use  me  as  my  due : — 
A  woman,  not  the  wind  about  your  ears; 
A  woman,  whom  you  loved. 

THE  PLAYER  (half -apart,  still  holding  the  lute). — 
Why  were  you  not 
That  beauty  that  you  seemed?  .  .  .  But  had 

you  been, 
'Tis  true,  you  would  have  had  no  word  for 

me, — 

No  looks  of  love. 
MARY. — 

The  man  reproaches  me? 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Not  I — not  I.  ...  Will  Herbert,  what  am  I 
To  lay  this  broken  trust  to  you  ? — To  you, 
Young,  free,  and  tempted :  April  on  his  way, 
Whom  all  hands  reach  for,  and  this  woman 

here 

Had  set  her  heart  upon! 
MARY. —  (With  sudden  fury) 
What  fantasy! 

Surely  he  must  have  been  from  town  of  late, 
To  see  the  gude-folk !    And  how  fare  they,  sir? 
Reverend  yeoman,  say,  how  thrive  the  sheep? 
What   did   the  harvest  yield  you? — Did   you 

count 
The   cabbage  heads?  and  find  how  like  .  .  . 

nay,  nay ! 

But  our  gude-wife,  did  she  bid  in  the  neighbors 
To  prove  them  that  her  husband  was  no  myth  ? 
Some  Puritan  preacher,  nay,  some  journeyman, 


38    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

To  make  you  sup  the  sweeter  with  long  pray 
ers? 

This  were  a  rare  conversion,  by  my  soul ! 
From  sonnets  unto  sermons : — eminent ! 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Oh,  yes,  your  scorn  bites  truly:  sermons  next. 
There   is   so  much  to   say.     But   it  must  be 

learned ; 

And  I  require  hard  schooling,  dream  too  much 
On  what  I  would  men  were, — but  women  most. 
I  need  the  cudgel  of  the  task-master 
To  make  me  con  the  truth.     Yes,  blind,  you 

called  me, 

And  'tis  my  shame  I  bandaged  mine  own  eyes 
And  held  them  dark.     Now,  by  the  grace  of 

God, 

Or  haply  because  the  devil  ttries  too  far, 
I  tear  the  blindfold  off,  and  I  see  all. 
I  see  you  as  you  are ;  and  in  your  heart 
The  secret  love  sprung  up  for  one  I  loved, 
A  reckless  boy  who  has  trodden  on  my  soul — 
But  that's  a  thing  apart,  concerns  not  you. 
I  know  that  you  will  stake  your  heaven  and 

earth 

To  fool  me, — fool  us  both. 
MARY  (with  some  interest}. — 

Why  were  you  not 

So  stern  a  long  time  since  ?    You're  not  so  wise 
As  I  have  heard  them  say. 
THE  PLAYER  (standing  by  the  chimney). — 

Wise?    Oh,  not  I. 

Who  was  so  witless  as  to  call  me  wise? 
Sure  he  had  never  bade  me  a  good-day 
And  seen  me  take  the  cheer !  .  .  . 

I  was  your  fool 

Too  long.  ...  I  am  no  longer  anything. 
Speak:  what  are  you? 
MARY  (after  a  pause). — The  foolishest  of  women: 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          39 

A  heart  that  should  have  been  adventurer 

On  the  high  seas;  a  seeker  in  new  lands, 

To  dare  all  and  to  lose.    But  I  was  made 

A  woman. 

Oh,  you  see ; — could  you  see  all ! 

What  if  I  say  .  .  .  the  truth  is  not  so  far, 

(Watching  him.) 

Yet  farther  than  you  dream.    If  I  confess  .  .  . 
He  charmed  my  fancy  .  .  .  for  the  moment, — 

ay 

The  shine  of  his  fortunes  too,  the  very  name 
Of     Pembroke?  .  .  .  Dear     my     judge, — ah, 

clouded  brow 

And  darkened  fortune,  be  not  black  to  me ! 
I'd  try  for  my  escape;  the  window's  wide, 
No  one  forbids,  and  yet  I  stay — I  stay. 

Oh,  I  was  niggard,  once,  unkind — I  know, 
Untrusty:  loved,  unloved  you,  day  by  day: 
A  little  and  a  little, — why,  I  knew  not, 
And  more,  and  wondered  why; — then  not  at 

all!— 

Drank  up  the  dew  from  out  your  very  heart, 
Like  the  extortionate  sun,  to  leave  you  parched ; 
Till,  with  as  little  grace,  I  flung  all  back 
In  gusts  of  angry  rain !    I  have  been  cruel. 
But  the  spell  works;  yea,  love,  the  spell,  the 

spell 

Fed  by  your  fasting,  by  your  subtlety 
Past  all  men's  knowledge.  .  .  .  There  is  some 
thing  rare 

About  you  that  I  long  to  flee  and  cannot: — 
Some  mastery  .  .  .  that's  more  my  will  than  I. 

(She  laughs  softly.  He  listens,  looking  straight 
ahead,  not  at  her,  motionless,  but  suffering  evi 
dently.  She  watches  his  face  and  speaks  with 


40    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

greater  intensity.    Here  she  crosses  nearer  and 
falls  on  her  knees.) 

Ah,  look :  you  shall  believe,  you  shall  believe. 

Will  you  put  by  your  Music  ?    Was  I  that  ? 

Your  Music, — very  Music?  .  .  .  Listen,  then, 

Turn  not  so  blank  a  face.    Thou  hast  my  love. 

I'll  tell  thee  so,  till  thought  itself  shall  tire 

And  fall  a-dreaming  like  a  weary  child;  .  .  . 

Only  to  dream  of  you,  and  in  its  sleep 

To  murmur  You.  .  .  .  Ah,  look  at  me,  love, 
lord  ... 

Whom  queens  would  honor.    Read  these  eyes 
you  praised, 

That  pitied,  once, — that  plead  for  pity  now. 

But  look !    You  shall  not  turn  from  me — 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Eyes,  eyes ! — 

The  darkness  hides  so  much. 
MARY. — 

He'll  not  believe.  .  .  . 

What  can  I  do  ?    What  more, — what  more,  you 
.  .  .  man? 

I  bruise  my  heart  here,  at  an  iron  gate.  .  .  . 

(She  regards  him  gloomily  without  rising.} 

Yet  there  is  one  thing  more.  .  .  .  You'll  take 

me,  now — 
My  meaning.     You  were  right.     For  once  I 

say  it. 

There  is  a  glory  of  discovery  (Ironically) 
To  the  black   heart  .  .  .  because   it   may  be 

known 
But  once, — but  once.  .  .  . 

I  wonder  men  will  hide 
Their   motives   all    so   close.     If   they    could 

guess,— 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          41 

It  is  so  new  to  feel  the  open  day 
Look  in  on  all  one's  hidings,  at  the  end. 


(She  shrugs  her  shoulders,  rises,  and  stands  off, 
regarding  him  fixedly.} 

So.  .  .  .  You  were  right.     The  first  was  all  a 
lie: 

A  lie,  and  for  a  purpose 

Now, — 

And  why,  I  know  not,  — but  'tis  true,  at  last, 

I  do  believe  ...  I  love  you. 

— Look  at  me! 

(He  stands  by  the  fireside  against  the  chimney- 
piece.  She  crosses  to  him  with  passionate  ap 
peal,  holding  out  her  arms.  He  turns  his  eyes 
and  looks  at  her  with  a  rigid  scrutiny.  She 
endures  it  for  a  second,  then  wavers;  makes 
an  effort,  unable  to  look  away,  to  lift  her  arms 
towards  his  neck;  they  falter  and  fall  at  her 
side.  The  two  stand  spell-bound  by  mutual 
recognition.  Then  she  speaks  in  a  strained 
voice. ) 

MARY. — 

Oh,  let  me  go ! 

(She  turns  her  head  with  an  effort, — gathers  her 
cloak  about  her;  hesitates  with  averted  eyes, 
then  hastens  out  as  if  from  some  terror.) 

(THE  PLAYER  is  alone  beside  the  chimney-piece. 
The  street  outside  is  darkening  with  twilight 
through  the  casements  and  upper  door.  There 
is  a  sound  of  rough-throated  singing  that  comes 


42    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

by  and  is  softened  with  distance.    It  breaks  the 
spell.) 

THE  PLAYER. — 

So;  it  is  over  .  .  .  now.  (He  looks  into  the 
fire.) 

Fair,  kind,  and  true. — And  true. — My  golden 

friend ! 
Both  .  .  .  both,  together.  .  .  .  He  was  ill  at 

ease. 
But  that  he  should  betray  me  with  a  kiss ! 

By  this  preposterous  world  ...  I  am  in  need. 

Shall  there  be  no  faith  left?  Nothing  but 
names  ? 

Then  he's  a  fool  who  steers  his  life  by  such. 

Why  not  the  body-comfort  of  this  herd 

Of  creatures  huddled  here  to  keep  them 
warm  ? — 

Trying  to  drown  out  with  enforced  laughter 

The  query  of  the  winds  .  .  .  unanswered 
winds 

That  scourge  the  soul  with  a  perpetual  doubt. 

What  holds  me? — Bah,  that  were  a  Cause,  in 
deed! 

To  prove  your  soul  one  truth,  by  being  it, — 

Against  the  foul  dishonor  of  the  world ! 

How  else  prove  aught?  .  .  . 

I  talk  into  the  air. 

And  at  my  feet,  my  honor  full  of  wounds. 

Honor?    Whose  honor?    For  I  knew  my  sin, 

And  she  .  .  .  had  none.  There's  nothing  to 
avenge. 

(He  speaks  with  more  and  more  passion,  too  dis 
traught  to  notice  interuptions.  Enter  DICKON, 
with  a  tallow-dip.  He  regards  THE  PLAYER 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          43 

with  half-open  mouth  from  the  corner;  then 
stands  by  the  casement,  leaning  up  against  it 
and  yawning  now  and  then.) 

I  had  no  right :  that  I  could  call  her  mine 
So  none  should  steal  her  from  me,  and  die  f or't. 
There's    nothing    to    avenge  .  .  .  Brave    beg 
gary! 

How  fit  to  lodge  me  in  this  home  of  Shows, 
With  all  the  ruffian  life,  the  empty  mirth, 
The  gross  imposture  of  humanity, 
Strutting  in  virtues  it  knows  not  to  wear, 
Knave  in  a  stolen  garment — all  the  same — 
Until  it  grows  enamored  of  a  life 
It  was  not  born  to, — falls  a-dream,  poor  cheat, 
In  the  midst  of  its  native  shams, — the  thieves 

and  bears 
And  ballad-mongers  all !  .  .  .  Of  such  am  I. 

(Reenter  TOBIAS  and  one  or  two  taverners.  TOBIAS 
regards  THE  PLAYER,  who  does  not  notice  any 
one, — then  leads  off  DICKON  by  the  ear.  Ex 
eunt  into  the  tap-room.  THE  PLAYER  goes  to 
the  casement,  pushes  it  wide  and  looks  out  at 
the  sky.) 

Is  there  nought  else?  ...  I  could  make  shift 

to  bind 

My  heart  up  and  put  on  my  mail  again, 
To  cheat  myself  and  death  with  one  fight  more, 
If  I  could  think  there  were  some  worldly  use 
For  bitter  wisdom. 
But  I'm  no  general, 

That  my  own  hand-to-hand  with  evil  days 
Should  cheer  my  doubting  thousands. 

.  .  .  I'm  no  more 

Than  one  man  lost  among  a  multitude  ; 
And  in  the  end  dust  swallows  them — and  me, 


44    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

And  the  good  sweat  that  won  our  victories. 
Who  sees?     Or  seeing,  cares?     Who  follows 

on? 

Then  why  should  my  dishonor  trouble  me, 
Or  broken  faith  in  him?    What  is  it  suffers? 
And  why?     Now  that  the  moon  is  turned  to 

blood. 

(He  turns  towards  the  door  with  involuntary  long 
ing,  and  seems  to  listen.} 

No  .  .  .  no,  he  will  not  come.     Well,  I  have 

nought 

To  do  but  pluck  from  me  my  bitter  heart, 
And  breathe  without  it. 

(Reenter  DICKON  with  a  tankard  and  a  cup.  He 
sets  them  down  on  a  small  table;  this  he  pushes 
toward  THE  PLAYER,  who  turns  at  the  noise.) 

.  .  .  So.    It  is  for  me  ? 
DICKON.— 

Ay,  on  the  score !     I  had  good  sight  o'  the 

bear. 

Look,  here's  a  sprig  was  stuck  on  him  with 
pitch ; — 

(Rubbing  a  little  green  sprig  on  his  sleeve.) 

I  caught  it  up, — from  Lambeth  marsh,  belike. 
Such  grow  there,  and  I've  seen  thee  cherish 

such. 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Give  us  thy  posy. 

(He  comes  back  to  the  fire  and  sits  in  the  chair  near 
by.  DICKON  gets  out  the  iron  lantern  from  the 
corner.) 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES          45 

DICKON   (whistling). — 

Hey!    It  wants  a  light. 

(THE  PLAYER  seems  to  listen  once  more,  his  face 
turned  towards  the  door.  He  lifts  his  hand  as 
if  to  hush  DICKON,  lets  it  fall,  and  looks  back 
at  the  fire.  DICKON  regards  him  with  shy  long 
ing  and  drazvs  nearer.) 

DICKON. — 

Thou  wilt  be  always  minding  of  the  fire  .  . 
Wilt  thou  not  ? 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Ay. 
DICKON. — 

It  likes  me.  too 
THE  PLAYER. — 

So? 
DICKON. — 

Ay 

I  would  I  knew  what  thou  art  thinking  on 
When  thou  dost  mind  the  fire.  .  .  . 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Wouldst  thou? 
DICKON. — 

Ay 

(Sound  of  footsteps  outside.    A  group  approache- 
the  door.) 

Oh,  here  he  is,  come  back ! 

THE  PLAYER  (rising  with  passionate  eagerness). — 
Brave  lad — brave  lad ! 

DICKON  (singing). — 

Hang  out  your  lanthorns,  trim  your  lights 
To  save  your  days  from  knavish  nights! 

(He  plunges  with  his  lantern,  through  the  doorway, 


46          FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES 

stumbling  against  WAT  BURROW  who  enters,  a 
sorry  figure,  the  worse  for  wear.) 

WAT  (sourly). — 

Be  the  times  soft,  that  you  must  try  to  cleave 
Why    through    my    ribs    as    tho'    1    was    the 

moon  ? — 
And    you    the    man-wi'-the-lanthorn,    or    his 

dog?— 

You  bean!  .  .  (Exit  DICKON.    WAT  shambles 
in  and  sees  THE  PLAYER) 
What,  you,  sir,  here? 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Still  here;  ay,  Wat. 

(  While  WAT  crosses  to  the  table  and  gets  himself  a 
chair,  THE  PLAYER  looks  at  him  as  if  with  a 
new  consciousness  of  the  surroundings.  After 
a  time  he  sits  as  before.  Reenter  DICKON  and 
curls  up  on  the  floor,  at  his  feet  with  bashful 
devotion.) 
WAT.— 

O  give  me  comfort,  sir.     This  cursed  day, — 
A  wry,  damned  .  .  .  noisome.  .  .  .  Ay,   poor 

Nick,  poor  Nick! 
He's  all  to  mend — Poor   Nick !     He's  sorely 

maimed, 

More  than  we'd  baited  him  with  forty  dogs. 
'Od's  body !    Said  I  not,  sir,-  he  would  fight  ? 
Never  before  had  he,  in  leading-chain, 
Walked   out   to   take   the   air   and   show   his 

coat.  .  .  . 

'Went  to  his  noddle  like  some  greenest  gull's 
That's  new  come  up  to  town.  .  .  .  The  Pren 
tices 

Squeaking  along  like  Bedlam,  he  breaks  loose 
And  prances  me  a  hey, — I  dancing  counter! 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.    47 

Then    such    a    cawing    'mongst    the    women! 

Next, 

The  chain  did  clatter  and  enrage  him  more; — 
You  would  'a'  sworn  a  bear  grew  on  each  link, 
And  after  each  a  prentice  with  a  cudgel, — 
Leaving  him  scarce  an  eye !    So,  howling  all, 
We   run   a   pretty   pace  .  .  .  and   Nick,   poor 

Nick, 

He  catches  on  a  useless,  stumbling  fry 
That  needed  not  be  born, — and  bites  into  him. 
And   then  .  .  .  the   Constable  .  .  .  And  now, 

no  show! 
THE  PLAYER. — 

Poor  Wat!  .  .  .  Thou  wentest  scattering  mis 
adventure 

Like  comfits  from  thy  horn  of  plenty,  Wat. 
WAT.— 

Ay,  thank  your  worship.    You  be  best  at  com 
fort.     (He  pours  a  mug  of  ale) 
No  show  to-morrow !    Minnow  Constable.  .  .  . 
I'm  a  jack-rabbit  strung  up  by  my  heels 
For  every  knave  to  pinch  as  he  goes  by ! 
Alas,  poor  Nick,  bear  Nick  .  .  .  oh,  think  on 

Nick. 
THE  PLAYER. — 

With  all  his  fortunes  darkened  for  a  day, — 
Arj4  the  eye  o'  his  reason,  sweet  intelligencer, 
Uncfer  a  beggarly  patch.  ...  I   pledge  thee, 

Nick! 
WAT.— 

Oh,  you  have  seen  hard  times,  sir,  with  us  all. 
Your  eye's  lack-lustre,  too,  this  day.     What 

say  you? 
No  jesting.  .  .  .  What?    I've  heard  of  marvels 

there 
In  the  New  Country.    There  would  be  a  knop- 

hole 
For  thee  and  me.    There  be  few  Constables 


48    FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES. 

And     such     unhallowed     fry.  .  .  .  An     thou 
wouldst  lay 

Thy  wit  to  mine — what  is't  we  could  not  do? 

Wilt  turn't  about?    (Leans  towards  him  in  cor 
dial  confidence) 

Nay,  you  there,  sirrah  boy, 

Leave  us  together;  as  'tis  said  in  the  play, 

"  Come,  leave  us,  Boy !  " 

(DICKON  does  not  move.  He  gives  a  sigh  and  leans 
his  head  against  THE  PLAYER'S  knee,  his  arms 
around  his  legs.  He  sleeps.  THE  PLAYER 
gazes  sternly  into  the  fire,  while  WAT  rambles 
on,  growing  drowsy.) 

WAT.— 

The  cub  there  snores  good  counsel.    When  all's 

done, 
What  a  bubble  is  ambition!  .  .  .  When  all's 

done  .  . 
What's  yet  to  do?  ...  Why,  sleep.  .  .  .  Yet 

even  now 

I  was  on  fire  to  see  myself  and  you 
Off  for  the  Colony,  with  Raleigh's  men. 
I've  been  beholden  to  'ee.  .  .  .  Why,  for  thee 
I  could  make  shift  to  suffer  plays  o'  Thursday. 
Thou'rt  the  best  man  among  them,  o'  my  word. 
There's  other  trades  and  crafts  and  qualities 
Could  serve  ...  an  thou  wouldst  lay  thy  wit 

to  mine. 

Us  two!  ...  us  two!  .  .  . 
THE  PLAYER  (apart,  to  the  fire). — 
"  Fair,  kind  and  true."  .  .  . 
WAT.— 

.  .  .  Poor  Nick! 

(He  nods  over  his  ale.  There  is  muffled  noise  in  the 
tap-room.  Some  one  opens  the  door  a  second, 
letting  in  a  stave  of  a  song,  then  slams  the  door 


FORTUNE  AND  MEN'S  EYES.          49 

shut.  THE  PLAYER,  who  has  turned,  gloomily, 
starts  to  rise.  DICKON  moves  in  his  sleep,  and 
settles  his  cheek  upon  THE  PLAYER'S  shoes. 
THE  PLAYER  looks  down.  Then  he  sits  again, 
looking  now  at  the  fire,  and  now  at  the  boy, 
whose  hair  he  touches. ) 

THE  PLAYER. — 

So,    Heavy-head.      You    bid    me    think    my 

thought 

Twice  over;  keep  me  by, — a  heavy  heart, 
As    ballast    for    thy    dream.      Well,    I    will 

watch  .  .  . 

Like  slandered  Providence.     Nay,  I'll  not  be 
The  prop  to  fail  thy  trust  untenderly, 
After  a  troubled  day. 

....  Nay,  rest  you  here. 


Curtain 


THE  WORLD'S  BEST  PLAYS 

BY  CELESRATED  EUROPEAN  AUTHORS 


A    NEW    SERIES    OF    AMATEUR    PLAYS    BY    THE    BEST 
AUTHORS,     ANCIENT     AND      MODERN,     ESPECIALLY 
TRANSLATED    WITH    HISTORICAL    NOTES,    SUG 
GESTIONS    FOR    STAGING,    Etc.,    FOR    THE 
USE     OF     SCHOOLS,     COLLEGES,     AND 
DRAMATIC     CLUBS 

BARRETT  H.  CLARK 
General   Editor 

Author  of  "  The  Continental  Drama  of  To-day,"  "  Contempo 
rary     French     Dramatists,"     translator     and     editor     of 
'•Three    Modern    Plays     From    the    French."     "Four 
Plays   of    the    Free    Theater,"    Hervieu's    "The 
Labyrinth,"     etc.,     etc. 

With  the  immensely  increased  demand  for  new  plays  for 
purposes  of  production  by  amateurs  comes  a  correspondingly 
great  demand  for  a  careful  selection  of  those  plays  which 
can  be  easily  and  well  presented  by  clubs  and  colleges.  The 
plays  in  the  present  series  have  been  chosen  with  regard  to 
their  intrinsic  value  as  drama  and  literature,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  their  adaptability  to  the  needs  and  limitations 
of  such  organizations. 

The  Scries,  under  the  personal  supervision  of  Barrett 
H.  Clark,  instructor  in  the  Department  of  Dramatic  Litera 
ture  at  Chautauqua,  New  York,  assistant  stage  manager 
and  actor  with  Mrs.  Fiske  (season  1S12-1913),  now  comprises 
forty-flve  volumes.  Eventually  there  will  be  plays  from 
ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  Spain,  France,  Russia,  Germany, 
and  the  Scandinavian  countries,  representative  of  the  beat 
drama  of  all  ages  and  lands. 

Each  volume  is  prefaced  by  a  concise  historical  note  by 
Mr.  Clark,  and  a  few  suggestions  for  staging. 

PLAYS   NOW  READY 

The  Romancers.  A  comedy  in  three  acts.  By  Edmond 
Rostand.  New  translation  of  this  celebrated  and  charming1 
little  romantic  play  by  the  famous  author  of  "Cyrano  de 
Bergerac"  and  "Chantecler."  Price  25  cents. 

The  Merchant  Gentleman  (Le  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme).  By 
Moliere.  New  translation  of  one  of  Moliere's  comic 
masterpieces,  a  play  which  is  well  adapted  to  amateur 
production.  9  males,  3  females.  Price  50  cents. 

Pater  Noster.  A  poetic  play  in  one  act.  By  Francois  Coppee. 
3  males,  3  females.  A  pathetic  incident  of  the  time  of  the 
Paris  Commune,  in  1871.  Price  25  cents. 

Indian  Summer.  A  comedy  in  one  act.  By  Mellhac  and 
Halevy.  2  males,  2  females.  This  little  play,  by  two  of 
the  most  famous  writers  of  comedy  of  the  last  century, 
has  been  played  at  the  Comedie  Francaise  at  Paris  for 
upwards  of  forty  years,  and  is  one  of  the  brightest  and 
most  popular  works  of  the  period.  Price  25  cents. 

Modesty.  By  Paul  Hervieu.  2  males,  1  female.  A  delight 
ful  trifle  by  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  modern 
dramatists.  Price  25  cents. 


I'm  Going!  A  comedy  in  one  act.  By  Tristan  Bernard.  A 
delightful  bit  of  comedy  of  obstinacy  and  reconciliation. 

1  man,   1   woman.     Price  25  cents. 

The  Village  (Le  Village).  A  comedy  in  one  act.  By  Octave 
i'euillet.  The  author  here  paints  the  picture  of  an  elderly 
couple,  and  shows  that  they  have  not  realized  their 
happiness  until  it  is  on  the  point  of  being  taken  from 
them.  2  women,  2  men.  Price,  25  cents. 

The  Beneficent  Bear.  A  comedy  in  three  acts.  By  Goldoni. 
One  of  the  best-known  comedies  of  the  Father  of  Italian 
Comedy.  A  costume  piece  laid  in  18th  century  France,  the 
principal  character  in  which  is  a  good-hearted,  though 
gruff,  old  uncle.  4  men,  3  women.  Price,  25  cents. 

Grammar  'La  Grammaire).  A  farce  in  one  act.  By  Labiche. 
An  amusing  and  charming  comedy  by  one  of  the  greatest 
of  19th  century  French  dramatists.  4  men,  1  woman. 
Price,  25  cents. 

The  Two  Cowards  (Les  Deux  Timides).  A  comedy  in  one 
act.  By  Labiche.  A  very  amusing  and  human  little 
comedy,  in  which  a  strong-willed  girl  helps  her  father 
choose  for  her  the  man  she  wishes  to  marry.  2  women,  3 
men.  Price,  25  cents. 

Master  Patcllit,  Solicitor.  A  comedy  in  three  acts.  Special 
version  by  Brueys.  One  of  the  most  famous  of  early 
French  farces.  The  setting  and  character  belong  to  the 
late  Middle  Ages.  The  play  is  concerned  with  the  ques 
tionable  dealings  of  a  clever  lawyer.  7  men,  2  women. 
Price,  25  cents. 

Crispin,  His  Master's  Rival.  A  comedy  in  one  act.  By  Le 
Sage.  A  famous  comedy  by  the  author  of  "Gil  Bias," 
concerned  with  the  pranks  of  two  clever  valets.  18th 
century  costumes  and  settings.  4  men,  3  women.  Price 
25  cents. 

The  Legacy.  A  comedy  in  one  act.  By  Marivaux.  A  delicate 
high  comedy  of  intrigue.  Marivaux  is  one  of  the  masters 
of  old  French  comedy,  and  this  play  is  full  of  deft  touches 
of  characterization.  2  women,  4  men.  Price  25  cents. 

After  the  Honeymoon.  A  farce  in  one  act.  By  Wolfgang 
Gyalui.  A  Hungarian  farce  full  of  brilliant  dialogue  and 
movement.  1  man,  1  woman.  Price,  25  cents. 

A  CJirietmas  Tale.  A  poetic  play  by  Maurice  Bouchor.  A 
beautiful  little  miracle  play  of  love  and  devotion,  laid  in 
15th  century  Paris.  2  men,  2  women.  Price,  25  cents. 

The  Fairy  (La  Fee).  A  romantic  comedy  in  one  act.  By 
Octave  Feuillet  Laid  in  a  hut  in  Brittany,  this  little 
comedy  is  full  of  poetic  charm  and  quiet  hurnor.  The 
element  of  the  supernatural  is  introduced  in  order  to  drive 
home  a  strong  lesson.  1  woman,  3  men.  Price,  25  cents. 

Jean-Marie.  A  poetic  play  in  one  act.  By  Andre  Theuriet. 
A  pathetic  play  of  Norman  peasant  life.  2  men,  1  woman. 
Price,  25  cents. 

The  Rebound.  A  comedy  in  one  act.  By  L.  B.  Picard.  A 
clever  comedy  of  intrigue,  and  a  satire  of  social  position. 

2  women,  5  men.     Price,  25  cents. 

Lysistrata.  By  Aristophanes.  An  acting  version  of  this 
brilliant  satire  on  Athenian  foibles,  with  strikingly  modern 
features.  4  men,  5  women,  1  child.  Chorus  of  old  men  and 
one  of  Greek  matrons,  about  15  in  each.  Text  is  accom 
panied  with  full  outline  of  an  effective  color  scheme  for 
costuming.  Price  25  cents. 


The  Twins.  By  Plautus.  7  males,  2  females.  A  Latin  farce, 
upon  which  Shakespeare  founded  his  Comedy  of  Errors 
Price  25  cents. 

The  House  of  Fourchnmbanlt.  By  Emile  Augier.  4  males, 
4  females.  In  four  acts.  One  of  the  greatest  of  recent 
French  family  dramas.  Although  the  play  is  serious  in 
tone,  it  contains  touches  which  entitle  it  to  a  position 
among  the  best  comedies  of  manners  of  the  times.  Price 
50  cents. 

The  Doctor  In  Spite  of  Himself  (Le  Medecin  malgre  lui). 
By  Moliere.  6  males,  3  females.  A  famous  farce  by  the 
greatest  of  French  dramatists.  Sganarelle  has  to  be 
beaten  before  he  will  acknowledge  that  he  is  a  doctor, 
which  he  is  not.  He  then  works  apparently  miraculous 
cures.  The  play  is  a  sharp  satire  on  the  medical  profes 
sion  in  the  17th  Century.  Price  25  cents. 

Brignol  and  His  Daughter.  By  Alfred  Capus.  5  males,  4 
females.  In  three  acts.  The  first  comedy  in  English  of 
the  most  sprightly  and  satirical  of  present-day  French 
dramatists.  Price  50  cents. 

Choosing  a  Career.  By  G.  A.  de  Caillavet.  Written  by  one 
of  the  authors  of  "  Love  Watches."  A  one-act  farce  of 
mistaken  identity,  full  of  humorous  situations  and  bright 
lines.  Price  25  cents. 

French  Without  a  Master.  By  Tristan  Bernard.  5  males, 
2  females.  A  clever  one-act  farce  by  one  of  the  most  suc 
cessful  of  French  dramatists.  It  is  concerned  with  the 
difficulties  of  a  make-believe  interpreter  who  does  not 
know  a  word  of  French.  Price  25  cents. 

Panurge's  Sheep.  A  comedy  in  one  act.  By  Meilhac  and 
Halevy.  A  famous  and  often-acted  little  play  based  upon 
the  obstinacy  of  a  charming  woman,  who  is  finally  induced 
to  marry.  1  man,  2  women.  Price,  25  cents. 

The  Law-Suit  (Der  Prozess).  A  comedy  in  one  act.  By 
Roderich  Benedix.  A  famous  comedy  by  the  well-known 
German  dramatist — author  of  "  The  Obstinate  Family," 
and  "  The  Third  Man."  The  play  is  full  of  amusing  situ 
ations  and  bright  lines.  5  men.  Price  25  cents. 

The  Third  Alan.  (Der  Dritte).  A  comedy  in  one  act.  By 
Roderich  Bened_ix.  A  highly  amusing  little  comedy  based 
upon  the  obstinacy  of  human  beings,  and  proves  th« 
truth  of  the  saying  that  "love  finds  a  way."  3  women, 
1  man.  Price  25  cents. 

The  Sicilian  (Le  Sicilien).  A  farce  in  two  acts.  By 
Moliere.  One  of  the  lighter  comedies  of  intrigue.  This 
play  is  laid  in  Sicily,  and  has  to  do  with  the  capture  of 
a  beautiful  Greek  slave  from  her  selfish  and  tyrannical 
master.  4  men,  3  women.  Price  25  cents. 

Doctor  Love  (L'Amour  Medicin).  a  farce  in  three  acts  by 
Moliere.  An  uproarious  farce,  satirizing  the  medical  pro 
fession.  Through  it  runs  the  story  of  a  young  girl  who 
pretends  to  be  ill  in  order  that  she  may  marry  the  man 
she  loves.  5  men,  4  women.  Price  25  cents. 

The  Affected  Young  Ladies  (Les  Precieuses  ridicules).  A 
comedy  in  one  act  by  Moliere.  The  famous  satire  on 
intellectual  and  social  affectation.  Like  most  of  Moliere'* 
plays,  the  theme  in  this  is  strikingly  modern.  3  women, 
6  men.  Price  25  cents. 

Crainqnebille.  A  play  in  three  scenes.  By  Anatole  France. 
A  delightful  series  of  pictures  of  Parisian  street  life,  by 
the  author  of  "The  Man  Who  Married  a  Dumb  Wife." 
12  men.  6  women.  Price  25  cents. 


Rosalie.  By  Max  Maurey.  1  male,  2  females.  A  "Grand 
Guignol"  comedy  in  one  act,  full  of  verve  and  clever 
dialogue.  Rosalie,  the  stubborn  maid,  leads  her  none  too 
amiable  master  and  mistress  into  uncomfortable  compli 
cations  by  refusing  to  open  the  front  door  to  a  supposed 
guest  of  wealth  and  influence.  Price  25  cents. 

The  Art  of  Being  Bored  (Le  Monde  ou  Ton  s'ennule).  A 
comedy  in  three  acts.  By  Edouard  Pailleron.  11  males, 
9  females.  Probably  the  best-known  and  most  frequently 
acted  comedy  of  manners  in  the  realm  of  nineteenth 
century  French  drama.  It  is  replete  with  wit  and  comic 
situations.  For  nearly  forty  years  it  has  held  the  stage, 
while  countless  imitators  have  endeavored  to  reproduce 
its  freshness  and  charm.  Price  25  cents. 

A  Marriage  Proposal.  By  Anton  Tchekoff.  2  males,  1 
female.  A  comedy  in  one  act,  by  one  of  the  greate»t  of 
modern  Russian  writers.  This  little  farce  is  very  popular 
in  Russia,  and  satirizes  the  people  of  that  country  in 
an  amusing  manner.  Price  25  cents. 

The  Green  Coat.  By  Alfred  de  Musset  and  Emile  Augier. 
3  males,  1  female.  A  slight  and  comic  one-act  character 
sketch  of  the  life  of  Bohemian  artists  in  Paris,  written  by 
one  of  France's  greatest  poets  and  one  of  her  best-known 
dramatists.  Price  25  cents. 

The  Wager.  By  Giuseppe  Giacosa.  4  males,  1  female.  This 
one  act  poetic  comedy,  written  by  the  most  celebrated 
dramatist  of  modern  Italy,  was  the  author's  first  work. 
It  treats  of  a  wager  made  by  a  proud  young  page,  who 
risks  his  life  on  the  outcome  of  a  game  of  chess.  Price 
25  cents. 

Phormlo.  A  Latin  comedy.  By  Terence.  11  males,  2  females. 
An  up-to-date  version  of  the  famous  comedy.  One  of  the 
masterpieces  of  Latin  drama;  the  story  of  a  father  who 
returns  to  find  that  his  son  has  married  a  slave  girl. 
Phormlo,  the  parasite-villain  who  causes  the  numerous 
comic  complications,  succeeds  in  unraveling  the  difficulties, 
and  all  ends  happily.  Price  25  cents. 

The  Little  Shepherdess.  A  poetic  comedy  in  one  act.  By 
Andre  Rivoire.  1  male,  2  females.  A  charming  pastoral 
sketch  by  a  well-known  French  poet  and  dramatist. 
Played  with  success  at  the  Comedie  Francaise.  Price  25 
cents. 

The  Boor.  By  Anton  Tchekoff.  2  males,  1  female.  A  well- 
known  one-act  farce  by  the  celebrated  Russian  master;  it 
is  concerned  with  Russian  characters,  and  portrays  with 
masterly  skill  the  comic  side  of  country  life.  Price  25 
cents. 

The  Black  Pearl.  By  Victorien  Sardou.  7  males,  3  females. 
One  of  Sardou's  most  famous  comedies  of  intrigue.  In 
three  acts.  A  house  has,  it  is  thought,  been  robbed.  But 
through  skilful  investigation  it  is  found  that  the  havoc 
wrought  has  been  done  by  lightning.  Price  25  cents. 

Chrrming  Leandre.  By  Theodore  de  Banville.  2  males,  1 
female.  In  one  act.  The  author  of  "  Gringoire  "  is  here 
seen  in  a  poetic  vein,  yet  the  Frenchman's  innate  sense  of 
humor  recalls,  in  this  satirical  little  play,  the  genius  of 
Moliere.  Price  25  cents. 

The  Post-Script.  By  Emile  Augier.  1  male,  2  females. 
Of  this  one-act  comedy  Professor  Brandcr  Matthews 
writes:  '  .  .  .  one  of  the  brightest  and  most  brilliant 
little  one-act  comedies  in  any  language,  and  to  be  warmly 
recommended  to  American  readers."  Price  25  cents. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-32m-8,'57(.C8680s4)444 


T  TT? 

LOS 


3531 


Fortune  and 
men's   ees 


iwomni 


PS 

3*31 
P311f 
1917 


XN 


